Of Roller Coasters and Crime Scenes
by PrizJefra
Summary: Having kissed those lips, would he ever be able to stand just looking at them again? Would silly 80s references and sing-song tones suffice as substitutes for the solutions that would quell the feelings that he now…possibly…felt for the young psychic? Shassie, cuz you know you want it. Warning: includes hyper waiters, sizzling eyes, and unpronounceable French food names.
1. Chapter 1

_"Carlton!"_

_The young boy smiled. Clothed in a skin-tight blue suit with a plastic gold medal around his neck and ears that poked out a little bit more than necessary under a tuff of messy black hair, eight year old Carlton Lassiter really was the picture of innocence. His mother dropped her keys and pressed her well-manicured hands to her mouth. "Look at you! Look at you. Come here, show me what you got."_

_The boy grinned wider and took the gold medal from around his neck and handed it to her. Lips quivering, she turned it over in her palm as tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes. She put it back on him and took a step back, surveying her son with a proud smile. "Carlton Lassiter," she said, hands on hips, "my little figure skater. Honey, I never knew…"_

_"Ah-ah-ah, not _you're_ little figure skater. The Number One figure skater in the district,"_

_"Oh, well, excuse me, _Mister Champion_. Come, I think this deserves ice cream."_

_Naturally, it was on every mother's memo to be proud of (or feign pride, if necessary,) a son who came home with a gold medal around his neck, but for Mrs. Lassiter this was something just a little bit bigger. She had never actually been to one of her son's figure skating meets – not a single one – seeing as it had come as a bit of a surprise to her when, one day, with determined eyes and a set face, young Carlton had informed her that he had signed up for figure skating lessons all by himself and that he would be needing ice skates by Monday. Grudgingly, and lacking a reason to say no, she had agreed and every other day since then he had come home shivering with a triumphant smile on his face and brand name ice skates hanging over his shoulder. Sure, the parents and leaders of the group had tried to get her to come to the meets but she was a busy woman! She had work to do and so did his father (who didn't know that their son was participating in such a 'feminine' sport.) Up until today she had no idea that her son had competed in a district wide competition or that he was such a little star. She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, about to tell him that from now on she would attend every single one of his competitions for the rest of his life when a noise resounded through the house that made them both freeze._

_A door opened somewhere downstairs, followed by a gust of wind and quick, heavy footsteps. An impressive man, maybe six feet tall with dark, brooding eyes and a handsome face set in an ever-lasting grimace, sauntered into the kitchen. Mrs. Lassiter instinctively pushed her son behind her, but not fast enough._

_"Honey, outside I thought I saw…" the man's eyes settled on Carlton's face and slowly traveled up and down the boy's body, "What is this? What's he wearing?" He turned to his wife inquiringly._

_"He, um, it's… he joined a class."_

_"What is it, a class for mermaids? Wha-" he grabbed Carlton's medallion and held it up to the light, "Carlton Lassiter," he read, "First Place Winner of the…Victoria Flatts Figure Skating Competition?"_

_"I was going to tell you!"_

_"What, when it was too late and you had turned our son into a complete pansy?!"_

_"Honey!"_

_But the man ignored her and turned his coal black eyes to the boy's pale face again. He bent down until they were eye-to-eye. "This," he said, yanking the metal off of Carlton's neck so hard that the blue ribbon snapped, "is for weak men. You insult me by wearing it. You insult every man in this family who has ever worked hard in his life. Until you own one of these for the purposes of upholding of the law," he pulled a silvery-black handgun out of his briefcase, making Mrs. Lassiter squeak, "marry a good wife, and hold a decent, high-paying job that serves to better the world and work against its many misfortunes…you will always be, in my eyes, a weak – "_

"What can I get you, sir?"

Detective Carlton Lassiter snapped out of his daydream (and seemingly his neck) and looked up. "Yes," he cleared his throat twice and straightened his blazer, "I'll have a Scotland salmon grilled on the skin – hold the fried vegetables – with a side of chilled vichyssoise and French caviar. Oh, and a coffee. Black with two sugars," The waiter, a young male hipster with a fresh face and coral-pink lips, jotted this down on a pink notepad and smiled a dopey, ecstatic-puppy smile that made Lassiter want to vomit and then barf.

"Will that be all?"

"Of course that will be all, do I look like I have an appetite of a whale?"

"What would you do if I said yes?"

"And what would you do if I said 'toe wedging'?"

"Ha, very good, sir! I'll be right back in a minute with your dinner." The waiter gathered up Carlton's menu but then hesitated before picking up the menu placed in front of the empty chair opposite him. He smiled and gave Lassiter a sympathetic look. "Late?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The lady," he gestured to the empty seat, "Don't worry, sir, I'm sure she'll get here very soon. I once had a lady that kept me waiting for three and a half hours. Worth it, though. She's now my wife."

"I'm not –" Lassiter paused and the two made awkward eye contact. The waiter's smile widened.

"Oh, I see. He's late, is he?"

"_I am not on a date with a man!_"

"Oh," the waiter paused, "…it's late?"

"You know what, actually I think I see her coming right now," Lassiter placed first his badge then his gun on the edge of the table, "here's her car and there she is!"

The waiter's smile was no longer so carefree. "I'll….I'll get you that meal, sir."

Carlton leaned back in his chair and sighed, listening to the waiter's rapid, click-clacking footsteps get farther and farther away. The dim golden lights surrounding him faded into a gentle blur as the quiet murmurings of the people around him became just that – a murmur in the background – as he closed his eyes. _What do you think of me now_, _dad_, he thought to himself in a half-sleepy bliss, _a high-paying job, a gun..._

_Sure you have all that, but where's your wife?_

_Hey, Victoria and I are still together, just separa…wait a minute, am I arguing with a voice inside of my head?_

_I'm not the worst voice that you can be hearing inside of your head, you know._

_You're right. Imagine if I started hearing that Spencer's -_

"So I told him, if you're going to build me a trampolina gigante, you're going to have to include all the works. I'm talking built in hamster cage, a soda pop machine on the side, a pin gum ball machine – you know you can't skimp on that – and, maybe, if possible , a Tears for Fears poster on the side…..you know, as a little extra sp-zaz. Whoa, Lassie!"

Lassiter groaned inwardly as Shawn, his arm draped possessively around some gorgeous woman's shoulders, waved at him as he entered the restaurant. "I'll be with you in a second," he whispered into her ear as he sat her down at a table. She smiled, a ruby-red lipped smile, taken by his charm. Lassiter then groaned outwardly as, much to his disappointment, Shawn came and sat down at his table instead. "Lassie, my man. What, uh, what are you doing over here all alone? I mean, come on, this is sort of a Couples Only."

Suddenly, Lassiter couldn't help but notice that the room seemed to be full of happy, snuggling lovers who were…kissing a lot while he sat here with... "Spencer, what the hell are you doing here? How can you even afford this place?"

"Connections, Lassie. It's all about the _coe-neck-she-uns_."

"You stole Gus's credit card, didn't you?"

"Eh," Shawn paused and an awkward silence descended upon them. He scratched his upper lip and watched as his date, rather impatiently, began to tap her foot and glare at him from across the room. "So what's up with you, man? Where's your date? She late?"

"_I am not dating a woman._"

"Oh," Shawn raised his eyebrows and made a teeny 'o' with his lips. "I see. He's late?"

"_**I AM NOT DATING A MAN!**_"

"Oh…it's late? Can I even say that? I don't -"

Just when Lassiter thought it couldn't get any worse the fresh-face waiter arrived with his dinner. "Oh! You must be the lover," he smiled at Shawn, who nodded in turn, before turning to Lassiter, "You know, you could've just told me. I'm not judgmental. What can I get you, sir?"

"Uh, I'll have the _Millefeuille de tomate et chèvre frais_," Shawn said, "Don't know what that is, just as long as it doesn't have any goat cheese or too much tomato. Actually, hold the tomato...if it has any tomato." The waiter took down his order and walked away. Shawn sighed in contentment and turned to look at Lassiter, only to find himself staring into a pair of sizzling, albeit quite handsome, eyes.

"Dude, you've got to stop d –"

"Okay, listen Spencer, I am not 'dude,' I am not your pal and I would appreciate it if you left this restaurant and left me alone _now_."

Spencer threw up his hands and hissed in disgust. "Okay, what is up with that?"

"What?!"

"This 'I am not your buddy,' 'I am not your pal' nonsense. Lassie, you're sitting in a couple's restaurant all alone. A companion wouldn't hurt!"

"_You_, of all people, my companion?" Lassie scoffed none-too-convincingly, "Listen, I don't need a companion."

There was a silence, tinged with something specific to each man. The waiter came by and dropped off Shawn's food, but suddenly neither of them seemed really hungry. "Lassie…" Shawn stirred some of the gooey white nonsense around at the end of his fork, the light of the tiny, dancing candle flame throwing shadows across his drawn face. Lassiter couldn't remember ever seeing Shawn so silent and pensive before. Finally he looked up, his dark green eyes scanning his with a guarded emotion. "Everyone needs a companion."

"Yeah, well, I don't –"

He leaned over and kissed him. He, the funny little psychic living life as if it were one big roller coaster ride, kissed him, the head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department living his life as if it were one big crime scene. In a restaurant full of gasping, pointing people and sympathetic waiters, Shawn kissed him slow and, frozen, Carlton didn't pull away…

For eight totally delicious seconds.

Finally, finally, when he couldn't take it any longer, he pulled back slowly and opened his eyes. The people around them hesitantly returned to their conversations and expensive meals. "Spencer…"

"I…I'm sorry." Shawn got up, upsetting the dishes on the table, and stumbled backwards, "so…terribly sorry, I...don't know what got into me. I…my brain got a little fuzzy…and…this crazy food on the table and…is this goat cheese? I mean, psh…come on, I…" mumbling, stuttering, he backed away and out of the restaurant before Lassie could stop him, leaving him alone with the flickering candle and a redolent plate of food in front of him.

Everyone needs a companion.

He brought his hand up to his mouth, feeling the spot where Spencer's lips had met his; his pouty, thin, pink lips that had so often been the conductors and starters of their playful banters and light teasing. Having kissed those lips, would he ever be able to stand just looking at them again? Would silly 80s references and sing-song tones suffice as substitutes for the solutions that would quell the feelings that he now…possibly…felt for the young psychic?

"In the name of god…" he ran his hand up to his temple where a migraine was quickly forming.

"That was gorgeous!" A waiter, female this time, bent over and replaced the candle, "he really loves you, I can tell. You gonna go chase after him?"

"What's that?" Lassiter pulled his hand away from his face and looked at her as if in a daze. Then, slowly, very slowly, a crooked smile crept over the side his face, "you know…I think I will." Resolved and determined as hell, he pulled his napkin from his lap, pocketed his badge and gun, and got up. "I'm going to go find that man and tell him that I…" he paused, "well, I'll see when I get there."

"Great!" The waitress squealed happily as the tall, straight-backed detective strode purposefully out of the diner. She paused when she noticed the untouched plates of food, "Hey, who's going to pay for all this?" Then her eyes lighted on Spencer's forgotten date, still sitting at a table with an awe-struck look upon her face. _Oh, there'll be other fish in the sea_, she thought sympathetically as she advanced upon the woman, a three-digit bill in her hand.

xXxXxXx

Author's Note

So, I'm going back and re-editing all of my previous stories in hopes of finding some inspiration and this one still, after the 14th re-edit, makes me laugh. Every time Carlton says, "I am not on a date with a man!" I think, "Oh, but you will be soon." Also, as a side note, _Millefeuille de tomate et chèvre frais _is actually a meal composed of nothing but goat cheese and tomato (I mean, correct me if I'm wrong.) Ha ha, poor, poor befuddled Spencer. I have so much more in store for him ;)


	2. Chapter 2

"I kissed Lassiter."

That didn't sound right.

"I kissed _Carlton_ Lassiter."

Nope. Still not quite convincing enough.

"I, Psychic Detective Shawn Spencer, born of Henry Spencer and Madeleine Spencer, kissed Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, born of…" he paused, "born of fire and brimstone?"

He still didn't believe himself. Taking a deep breath in, he closed his eyes, covered his ears, and yelled at the top of his lungs. "_IkissedLassiterIkissedLassit erIkissedLassiterIkissedLass iterIkissedLassiterIkissedLa ssiter!_"

Yeah…no.

"I kissed Lassiter. I kissed Lassiter. I _kissed _Carlton Lassiter. His lips actually met mine and we-"

"Shawn! You kissed Lassiter?!"

"Gus! Kinda impeding on my personal thoughts, aren't we?"

"I could hear you screaming all the way down the street!"

"...oh."

Shawn dropped into a chair and sighed, twisting a battered football around in his hands. It was a sultry night in Santa Barbara; the stars winked lazily in the deep velvet sky, street musicians played their last Italian songs and giggling, smiling couples passed by the office window in a lovesick sort of daze. Usually Shawn would be out there amongst them eating his sixth pistachio hot fudge Sunday with Gus or chatting it up with some pretty girl at Tom Blair's bar but tonight he just felt baffled and a bit sickened having known and then so quickly withdrawn from Lassiter's touch. Gus, sensing Shawn's distress, sat down in the chair opposite him and leaned forward. "Tell me what happened," he said worriedly.

"I don't know, Gus, I mean I was going to that restaurant with that…Ashley Patton and he was there so I stopped by his table to say hi –"

"Wait a minute, was he alone?"

"Yeah, he wasn't on a date with a woman."

Gus made an 'oh' face, "I see. A man, then,"

"_Will you stop it_," Gus frowned, "Anyway, he was there and I stopped by to say hi and…I don't know, man I just…I leaned forward and I kissed him, okay? Right on the lips and…Gus, help me out here. I don't know what to do."

Gus had never heard Shawn sound so lost, so imploring and pathetic before. He refrained from asking the one question on the tip of his tongue ("So you just left Ashley there to watch as you two made out?!") and instead asked the one that mattered the most at the moment, "Shawn, how long have you had feelings for Lassiter?"

"Feelings?" Shawn got up and threw the football into a basketball hoop pinned to the wall, "and here we go talking about feelings."

"This is serious Shawn! If you think that you may love this man then you need to act on it!"

"I do not."

"Do, too."

"Do not!"

"Do, too! Don't disagree with me, Shawn!"

"_Do not!_ And you know what, buddy, I _can _disagree with you; it's in the constitutional amendment! Every man has the right to….constitutional disagreement. It's right there under every man shalt have the right to a bear's arms."

"That's not-" suddenly, Gus froze as he spotted something – or rather someone – outside of the office window. "Right, well, about that," he quickly gathered up his jacket and, much to Shawn's astonishment, headed towards the door, "good luck with that. I'm sure you'll find the answer somewhere out there, Shawn."

"Gus!" he yelled, watching his best friend rush out the front door.

"Good luck!"

"Good luck?! What am I supposed to do with good luck? Fat bunch of help you are! _Ooh, look at me, my name is big, fat Burton Guster and I abandon my best friend in times of need, probably to go chase after some girl who smells like mocha fries and hot dogs and_ – Lassie?"

"Shawn."

There he stood, again. Violet eyes tell no lies and right now, what Shawn saw in Lassiter's eyes made a thousand butterflies dance a wild, drunken hula dance in his stomach. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"Just…stopped by…to…say hi," Lassiter said through clenched teeth. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Lassiter mentally strangled himself as Shawn raised his eyebrows in surprise and, truthfully, a bit of amusement. Indecisive, Lassiter had fantasized about what he would do to him once he got here: in scenario one he would've mocked him and broke his little heart by telling him that he, Carlton Lassiter, was way out of his reach for so many reasons; in scenario two he would've forced him against the wall at gunpoint and warned him of the consequences if he ever tried to kiss him again; and in scenario three, the scenario that made him cringe with confusion and embarrassment, he would've taken that little fine-haired, fake psychic in his arms and did things to him that he wasn't even sure was legal in some states. But instead he stood there in the middle of the office in a dead awkward silence. Somewhere, a clock ticked mockingly.

"Hi?" Spencer's eyebrows went farther up on his head. Amongst all this he was actually beginning to enjoy Lassiter's discomfort.

"Hello."

He sighed. "Okay, Lassie, look, what happened in that restaurant was completely random. I never had any…feelings for you and, for the record, goat cheese makes me act a little coo coo at times, so..."

While the butterflies in Shawn's stomach began to trip over themselves and smash shot glasses over the bar counter in a dreaded hangover, the butterflies in Lassiter's stomach began to wake up and shoot themselves. "You've never had any feelings for me," he reconfirmed, trying to hide his disappointment from both himself and Shawn.

"None at all,"

There was a pause in which Lassiter stared at Shawn, different emotions chasing after each other on his face. Oh, _Hell be damned_, he thought. He took a breath in. "Okay, listen, Spencer," he sat down in Gus's chair and fixed Shawn with a penetrating gaze, "I can sit here all night and tell you how much of an incompetent, lazy, pesky little fake psychic detective I think you are and that I wish you had never stepped foot in the Santa Barbara Police Department two years ago but then I'd be lying. I mean, true you are the most incompetent, lazy, pesky little fake psychic detective that I have ever encountered but you walking into that interrogation room and busting me for sleeping with my partner two years ago was the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"Lassie…"

"Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh, let me finish, Spencer. I mean, your hair, your smile, even the witty albeit rather annoying banters that we have from time to time just…" Lassiter paused and looked away, "I guess…what I'm trying to say, Spencer, is that I love you. And if you choose to accept and return my love then you will truly make me the happiest man on earth and I'd be proud to have you as my partner. If not, well, I'll respect your decision but just know that in declining my love you leave a big, smoldering gun wound right here," Lassiter point to his chest, "that I will carry around with me for the rest of my short, miserable life."

_Not giving me much of a choice, now are we?_ Shawn thought to himself. "Lassie…look, I understand how much this means to you and, I must admit, you've taken me by surprise tonight," Shawn gave an awkward, forced laugh, "I mean, who would've thought that the guy whose most valuable possessions I super glued to the top of his desk would end up falling in love with me. But the fact of the matter is, Carlton, I can't…"

Lassiter stared at him, shocked. Then, with the formal grace of a cop, he composed himself and stood up. "I understand,"

"…let you walk out of that door with a big, smoldering bullet hole in your heart," Shawn jumped up and grabbed him by his jacket, pulling him into passionate, fevered kiss that lasted for quite a while. Lassiter pulled back smiling, "Wait, Spencer, are…are you serious?"

"Like Scarface loves his Coca-Cola or William Regal loves to step on little people-"

"So what you're trying to say is that you love me back." Shawn smiled.

"Lassie, what I'm trying to say is that your saying 'why don't you let us ask the questions for a while' was the best thing that has ever happened to me in my twenty, thirty-something years of life."

"Spencer, that makes no sense."

"It's the first time I ever heard your voice," Shawn shook his head, feeling rather foolish, "Just kiss me, Detective." Lassiter willingly obliged and the two men held each other close, impossibly close, and kissed each other with lovers' abandon. Woozy with adoration for the older man, Spencer pulled and wrenched at the detective's clothing with annoyance mixed with desperation. God, what a _barrier _they were between him and the rest of the detective's warm body.

"I forgot my…oh my god," Gus froze and stared at the scene before him in disbelief. Shawn quickly turned and looked at him with his _uh-oh_ face.

"I was just…he was just…he had something in his teeth…which I was getting off…with my tongue…"

"Then why's his hand up your shirt?"

"He…was checking my temperature…"

"Really?"

"Guster, get out of here or I will shoot," Lassie said, completely serious.

"Fine. Shawn, we _will _talk about this tomorrow. Extensively," Gus grabbed his bag from the desk and stomped out. Shawn, chuckling and shaking his head, turned and stared into Lassie's grey, possibly violet, eyes. "So, _Detective_, what are we going to do _extensively_?"

"I have a few bottles of Jack Daniels and a freshly Cloroxed bathtub at home, I think you know damn well what we're going to do, Spencer. Let's go."

oOoOo

Author's: Ooh, Shassie getting dirty at the end. I have to say, though, poor Gus. He always seems to stumble upon life-shattering things. Screw Marlowe, Shassie forever! Oh, and obsession aside, I'm not sure where I'm going with this story. It sure is fun to work with, I have a full-blown story idea for it, and I want to make Shassie get even dirtier towards the end. But, hey, we'll see. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: And now, we hit the actual story. Don't worry, though, plenty of Shassie up ahead. I'll try to get in a little sexy smooch every chapter. Ooh, and a naughty chapter. That's coming up.

xXxXxXx

A woman was running. Running for all that her life was worth.

She flung open the door and cleared the porch steps in an impressive leap. In front of her was parked a police car, a strangely comforting sight considering the circumstances. A man's pale face loomed worriedly in the passenger's window before withdrawing back into the darkness within the car.

"Come on, baby," he said to her as she threw open the door. He yanked the shift stick a bit too hard and the car lurched forward with a violent grunt. But she had frozen and was looking at him with an expression of pure fear. "I must go back inside," she whispered fervently.

"No! Em-no! Don't go back in there!" he hissed.

"I have to! I left…baby, I have to go!" She whirled around and ran back into the house. The man cursed and pummeled his steering wheel, his panic replaced with an annoyance and desperation that coursed, burning, through his veins. If anyone found out…if anyone ever found out…

Meanwhile, the girl had entered the house again and was looking around wildly. It was dark, eerily dark, and the only form of light that entered the house were the ghostly pale squares cast by the moon onto the living room carpet. It was still, too. It wasn't supposed to be still.

She proceeded, arms crossed protectively over her chest.

With every muffled step she expected the woman of the house to jump out at her and strangle her or take vengeance in some other form of cruel and ironic torture, but finally she reached the living room still in one piece. With a frightened glance at the stair rail, she shuffled towards the writing desk and flicked on the lamp. Papers, papers, where was the one that she needed? She glanced towards the stair rails again, but the body hung still, lifeless, quite dead. With a shaky sigh of relief she found what she was looking for and hurriedly stuffed it in her pocket. With another glance at the body she hurried towards the door again but suddenly stopped. The body had moved…it was slowly turning around…it was looking at her, gasping…no, it was speaking…yes; the scarlet mouth was definitely saying something.

"Emma…Emma Lee…you killed me."

The girl screamed. Panting heavily, she ran towards the door and out into the night, pausing only once upon a yellow dot of streetlight to gaze in awe at the house. An unintelligible shout from her boyfriend brought her to and, still shivering, she hopped into the police car and together they rode away into cold, shameful oblivion.

oOoOoOo

It was an average day for the employees of the SPBD. Buzz McNab had accidentally set Interrogation Room B on fire for the second and a half time that morning, Chief Karen Vick was already onto her sixth cup of coffee (it was only 10 am) and the spunky black woman at the front desk kept claiming to have seen the spirit of her dead grandmother glide across the room. Suddenly, the front doors burst open and two men, impressive in demeanor and with quite a few marks in the Physical Sexiness Checklist, strode in. Everyone paused what they were doing and looked up at the two men whose long, fly-away hair twirled lusciously behind them while Aerosmith's Dream On played somewhere in the distance. A woman, perhaps entranced by their beauty or just plain confused, got up from her desk and walked warily towards them.

"Shawn? Gus? Why are you wearing wigs and blasting music? C…can you turn it down a bit? Can you…" Shawn looked at her inquiringly and then pointed to his ears. After a moment of silent but furious hand gestures, Shawn unplugged his iPod from its speaker and fixed her with a patient look. "Fact: did you know that Joe Elliot is friggin' awesome?"

"Now, imagine pairing him with Michael Jackson pre-hydroxychloroquine – _whaaaaaat_?" Gus began to perform some strange kind of toe-tapping, eye-squinting dance mimicked immediately by Shawn. Juliet was about to tell them that their wigs were on the verge of falling off but…if it wasn't one thing it was another. "But what does wearing wigs have to do with Michael Jackson and Joe Elliot?"

"Everything," Shawn said, peering out at her from under his lopsided (and quite greasy, for some reason,) bangs, "Gus and I had a bit of a marathon this morning. Ooh, you should have come, Jules! You could have been Molly Ringwald!"

"Shawn, that makes no sense!"

"Your face makes no sense…."

"Boys! Boys, seriously?" poor, patient Jules closed her eyes and shook her head, "listen, have you heard the news?"

"Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett are finally setting aside their differences and getting back together? Shocking, unexpected. Gus actually peed his pants when he found out."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"Come on, son…"

"While that's very interesting that's not what I had in mind. Did you hear about the incident at 322 Ridgeview this morning?"

"N…wait, yeah. I heard it in the news. Apparently there was a suicide there." Juliet nodded at Gus. She quickly ran to her desk and came back clutching a crisp newspaper which she thrust into his hands. "Mackenzie Abel was found dead in her apartment this morning by her fiancé when he came to check on her after she didn't answer any of his calls. But get this; three witnesses came forward about an hour after it hit the news claiming to have seen a woman running out of Abel's house last night. They said the woman seemed frantic and nervous and that she kept stopping to stare at the house."

"But let me guess, not one can find her and nobody knows who she is, that's why you need me." God, this wig really did feel itchy. Where did he even get it from?

"Actually, Shawn, she should be arriving here any minute. The witnesses described her to a sketch artists and the new guy claimed to have recognized her from a local bakery. He and Lassiter went to go and get her."

Shawn froze, although he didn't know why. He wasn't…no, no, he wasn't jealous. Lassiter had the right to apprehend suspects with whoever he wanted, no matter how tall, sporty, and well-built they were. _Silly paranoia that's all_, Shawn told himself as he scratched subconsciously at the plastic hair, _anyway, it's not like Lassiter's officially mine…._

_Yet._

Still, that didn't stop him from glaring distastefully at the new cop as he and Lassiter walked through the doors with their new suspect handcuffed between them. Everyone watched in surprise as the suspect, a timid, mousy-looking woman in a print dress, shuffled past shyly and quite complacently. Why wasn't she kicking, screaming, and cursing every moving object in sight like their usual suspects did?

"Must say, excellent work, Moran," Lassie was saying as he passed right by Shawn without even looking at him. Shawn desperately tried to get his attention (perhaps grabbing Gus's wig and waving it about wasn't the right way to do it) but Lassie just ignored him, engrossed as he was in his conversation with Moran.

"Oh, it was nothing much, Lassiter -"

"Please, call me Lassie. Detective Thunder or Mr. Weber works fine, too."

"Well, Detective Thunder," Moran said to a visibly beaming Lassiter as the two men walked to the stairs leading down into the holding cells, "It was just instinct, I guess. Every time I stopped by to get my bagels from this one I could feel that something was off with her, I just could never tell what."

"Well, I congratulate you. That instinct is going to get you very far as a detective. Once in the field, a cop's best weapon is his instinct along with his gun, of course, and it's good that you have one of them at least. Come on, can we get a hand for Detective Moran over here," Lassiter turned expectantly to the employees around him and immediately they started clapping and cheering as Moran, quite red in the face and stuttering his thanks, began to lead his prisoner down the stairs. Gus, who had been clapping politely and nodding his spectacular maltball shaped head, suddenly noticed The Look on Shawn's face.

"Dude, no," he said in a low voice.

"I have to, Gus. I'm the one who should be there right in the middle of that hot, buttery action. Me, not Mr. Moron over there,"

"His name is Moran, jackass, and this is about Lassiter, isn't it? You're upset because he's up in it with another man." Shawn _pssh_ed at his friend's chronic clumsiness with words and stepped forward while Gus, sensing danger, began to take teeny steps back. Shawn took a breath in and said in his loudest, most obnoxious voice. "That woman did not commit a murder!"

As expected, everybody paused and turned to look at him. Chief Karen Vick, who had been listening to the whole ordeal from inside her office, stood up from her desk and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "And what makes you say that, Mr. Spencer?" She was curling her bottom lip over her teeth, a look that he had always interpreted as a signal to start apologizing. "B…b-because!" he said, looking around for a source of inspiration, "The….sssss…spirits told me so!"

"Ah! The spirits. Did the spirits also happen to tell you why they think that this woman has not committed a murder?"

"Chief," Shawn said, pressing his palms together. "The spirits don't think nor do they speculate nor…do they testiculate, for that matter –"

"The word's gesticulate."

"….I've heard it both ways."

"You have not!"

"I can't do this with you right now, Gus. Am I and my spectacularly bald-headed companion on the case or not?"

"Well…"

"Chief, if I may say something," Lassie, who had been tapping his pen impatiently on the edge of his desk this whole time, stood up. Shawn smiled at him as he came closer and even waved a little but Lassie just smirked and turned to the Chief. "We all know Shawn's methods and we all know how, spurred on by delusions, attention-seeking ways, and ignorant speculations on things not even related to the case often lead to disaster. He is an embarrassment to the whole police force and, in my opinion, chief, putting him on the case would be a really, really bad idea, and I know how as a woman you're under a lot of pressure t-"

"_Thank you_, Detective Lassiter. And as for your opinion I'm going to have to disagree. It wouldn't hurt to have extra eyes on the case. You're hired, Spencer. Spencer?" But Spencer wasn't even listening to her. He was staring open-mouthed at Lassiter, the very man who he had shared a bathtub with and, more importantly, a three year old bag of red vines – the _very same_ man who had just dismissed (or rather, explained quite accurately) Shawn's gift in one breath. "Lassie!" he said, "Can I have a word with you in the _You're a Filthy Little Two Timer Room _otherwise known as Interrogation Room B?"

"That was just burned down."

"...A?"

Lassie shrugged and followed him downstairs, but not before congratulating Moran one more time as he passed him on the staircase. Shawn clenched his teeth.

"Okay," he said, closing the door behind them, "what was that?"

"I'm sorry?" Lassie hooked his hands in his pockets and leaned forward.

"Damn right you're sorry. Man, I thought we were together now! No more Shawn and Lassie butting heads and going in the opposite direction. No more you putting down my gift as wild speculations in the dark!"

Lassie made an 'oh' face and looked away, "Look, Spencer, you know I love you. Last night was…I must say, it was amazing, but they can't know that we're together now."

"What, by they you mean–"

"You remember what happened to my old partner when they found out that we were screwing each other? She got kicked out, Spencer. Now what do you think they'll do to you or me, for that matter, when they find out what we've got going on?" Shawn opened his mouth to speak, but found that his voice wasn't working properly. Lassie gave him a tight-lipped smile. "So until we…_figure things out_ let's keep this on the low key which means that I have to constantly discredit your theories and you have to…do whatever you do to make it seem like you don't like me. 'Course, I never believed your wild speculations anyway…"

Shawn took a page from Gus's book and smacked his lips. He was very, very tempted to say _come on, son_ but felt like it wasn't really appropriate, considering the situation. He turned to leave, but Lassie grabbed him by the arm and spun him around, pulling him into a ferocious kiss. "Tell me you love me," he said playfully, his violet eyes twinkling.

"Only if you promise to press your sweet, sugar-coated lips against mine every third second on the dot,"

"I can't do that."

"…every half hour?"

"…that works."

"I love you Lassie,"

"I love you too, Spencer," they kissed again. Still grinning, Shawn was about to open the door when Lassie called him back once more.

"That reminds me…" he shuffled closers, hands back in pockets, using a voice that Shawn immediately became suspicious of, "when are we going to…you know…"

Spencer stared at him. And then realization hit. "Oh! Oh…god…well…Lassie…heh, that's…that's, uh…I'm going to have to sit on that one. Not…not literally, more like in a metaphorical-type sense…heh…" Shawn began to take tentative steps back. Sure, he and Lassiter had spooned it up in a steaming hot bath tub, naked and unabashed, just last night. Sure, Shawn had listened contentedly as Lassiter had told him the story of how he had taken out a clown with only three bullets (he had even attempted to make a diagram out of the green-apple-bubble-gum scented bubbles – Shawn's choice – but then, much to Shawn's alarm, had shot at the rubber ducky when it suddenly popped up from beneath the surface and scattered his diagram…a long story that might get its own fan fiction) while their legs overlapped in crisscrossing patterns. Sure, they had kissed ("Lassiter, it's been 2 and a half hours, we have to stop," "No we don't…") each other goodnight and fallen asleep in Lassie's comfy bed but that was all. The thought of doing anything else, going further with the older detective had never really occurred to him until just now. He wasn't sure if the idea scared or aroused him.

"We'll...talk about it later…"

With that he turned and flung open the door, bumping into a wide-eyed ('eye brows raised' would have fit the description, too, but his eyebrows had been singed) McNab on his way out. It didn't occur to Spencer at the time to wonder just what had shocked the young detective so much.

XxXxX

Author's note: That was very, very long. Do I apologize to you guys or pat myself on the back?

Gus: Pat yourself on the back.

Author: Get out, son.

Gus: *lip smack*

Author: Let me know what you guys think? Please? Puh-wease? Anything specific you wanna see? Let me know! Suggestions for the storyline? I'd love 'em. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy!


	4. Chapter 5

The Next Day, at Mackenzie Abel's House

"Okay…"

Shawn walked over to the nearest cabinet and ran his hands over it inquiringly. Nothing there. He then walked over to the messy desk and ruffled some papers. An 'Actors Needed' ad, a couple of doodle-ridden manuscripts, a 'Buy one Get the Second one Free' coupon for Togos…ooh. Casually, and totally not-suspiciously, he glanced behind him. The forensics people were busy bagging evidence and dusting for prints. No one was looking at him. He slipped the coupon in his pocket.

"Shawn!"

Damn it.

He sighed and turned towards Gus, who had just walked in. "All right look, dude. It was just lying right there. Nobody saw me take it and, truthfully, I think this is something that we can keep between ourselves. Besides," he added defensively, "it's not like she's going to use it anyway - she's dead. I mean, maybe she could've used it in heaven, but I didn't think they had Togos in heaven. Subways, maybe–"

"You stole something from the dead woman?"

"…would I still have to split it with you if I said no?" Gus shook his head.

"Shawn, I told you about stealing stuff from dead people. One day, their spirits are going to come back and haunt you."

"And I will be eating a delicious Togos sandwich when they do."

"Whatever," Gus turned towards the desk that Shawn had been looking over and began to rifle through some of the papers, "have you found anything yet?"

"If by find you mean psychically glean something that'll convince the chief that the woman didn't hang herself? No."

"Well keep looking. Here, I'll help."

Gus began pulling out cabinets and files while Shawn wandered into the next room. He didn't want to tell Gus the real reason why he couldn't pick up on anything because even he didn't want to think about it. The truth was, every time he tried to focus, _really_ set his mind on this case, Lassie would be there. The handsome Detective was all he ever thought about now – there simply was no more room in his brilliant mind for trivial, by comparison, observations and deductions/speculations into other peoples' lives. To top it all off, Shawn still had his worries and doubts about the whole relationship. How long until the Chief found out about them? What would happen when she did? How long would he be able to avoid talking to Lassie about…_that_? Why did Agent Moran have to be so gosh darn handsome? Well…the latter just pissed him off.

Shawn sighed, staring vacantly at the heavy bureau that had been shoved away from the front door so that the forensics team could come in and out of the house. But he did love Lassie. God, it was undeniable. Never had he known what it felt like to want to talk to, smile at, and kiss a man every minute, every second. Now that he was away from the department building where Lassie was no doubt working right now (probably cursing over some three page document or bragging about some police exploit or another,) he desperately wanted to get back and start a round of playful banter and faux-annoyed teasing with him, then go home and kiss him 'till they were both breathless. He stared at the bureau.

And stared at the bureau.

And stared at the bureau a little bit more.

And cocked his head at the bureau.

And squinted at the bureau.

And framed the bureau between two hands, picture style.

And walked up and began to do push-ups on the side of the bureau. Gus looked up and immediately became worried. "Shawn, what are you doing to that poor bureau?"

"Gus, come here and try to push this thing." Gus, rolling up his sleeves in what he believed to be a really manly way, walked up and braced his palms against the faded wood. "Watch this, Shawn. Get ready to see a play-ya at work." Gus cackled (like a play-ya) and pushed….and pushed….but he could not budge the bureau. Shawn joined him and even with their combined weight they could not move it. Panting, they stood back and looked at the thing, perplexed. "Excuse me," Shawn said to a passing forensic woman. She looked up.

"Yes?"

"How many people did it take to move this thing?"

"Ooh, two men pushing on one side and another man pulling from the other. One of them hurt their back while trying to do it." But Shawn wasn't listening to her. He was looking at the floor beneath the bureau. "And you guys dragged it to the…left, am I right?"

"Yes."

"I knew it. Gus, come here. Look at this. You see this drag mark over here leading to the left. There are two sets of foot prints there on either side."

"The forensics people,"

"Right. Now look at the drag marks leading to the right. There are two sets of footprints there: one of the forensics guy pulling the bureau backwards and one of the person who pushed the bureau forward in the first place to block the door in case anyone should walk in while they were trying to commit suicide…or murder. Now answer me this: do these footprints look like they belong to either the suspect or the dead woman?"

"No!"

Shawn clapped his hands together. "That's it! Someone else _was _here! These footprints are size 9, 10, maybe in men's! Gus, think about it…only an incredibly strong man could have moved this bureau on his own and, unless mine eyes deceive me, our suspect is definitely not an incredibly strong man…. that would be kind of hot, though."

"And check this out. I did a little digging, too, and turns out the dead woman was married to a famous caster who's currently casting in Santa Barbara," Gus pulled out a bundle of papers and showed them to Shawn, "apparently, she was trying out for a part in his movie. And look at this. She has a copy of the list of people trying out and there's a page missing."

Shaw gasped theatrically. "Somebody didn't want us to know that they're on that list. Dude…we are _awesome_."

"_What?_"

"_What?_"

"_What?_" They bumped fist and, much to everybody's surprise, begin to perform a wild kind of dance right beneath the spot where the dead woman had hung herself. "Dude, let's go tell Lassie!"

"We're supposed to report to the chief first…"

"Yeah, but now I have an excuse to go and bother him at his desk. Come on, come on, let's go!"

oOoOoOo

Somewhere, only a couple of blocks away, a man was being held at gunpoint, praying for his life.

xXxXxXx

Author's Note: *screams* Aah, this eye-gouging *bleep-bleep*ing, *bleeper-bleep*ing writer's block! Gah, I need to bite something *looks at cat* *cat looks back* Sorry if my writing is kinda-eh-wobbly at places. I think I slowly broke out of writer's block while Shawn was staring and staring and cocking and squinting and framing the bureau, so what I'm trying to say is excuse any grammar/structure mistakes. Ooh, stay tuned though, next chapter is really important. (Spoiler alert: the chief finds out)


End file.
